The Hero and the Legend
by Eliza Darling
Summary: Fighting just isn't worth it anymore. Warning for non-con.


**So this has been in my head for a while. I've always wanted to explore Emperor Hux, but here the dynamic is with an enslaved Rey rather than Empress Rey. I do plan on writing Empress Rey in the future, but for now this is a predecessor to a few more ideas I have for Reyux in the future.**

 **Warning for non-consensual (and dubiously consensual) sex. I'm well aware of the themes of my writing and if you come to comment with an agenda you'll be ignored, as you've been warned about the content of this piece.**

" **The Hero and the Legend"**

" _Heroes always get remembered, but you know legends never die."_

—Panic! At the Disco, "Emperor's New Clothes"

Rey hates that the only emanating warmth in the throne room comes from, ironically, her cold-hearted captor. Her "master," as he's so keen on calling himself. And if she doesn't call him that, she doesn't eat. And when she doesn't eat, that's when he tantalizes her by teasing her with a smorgasbord of food, a banquet meant only for him, complete with the best food in the galaxy.

If she kisses his boot and "apologizes," and swallows her dignity (whatever little of it is left), he gives her food, and then she's in his bed, dreading the night. The room itself is gorgeous, with its four-poster bed and linen curtains made out of sheer, light material, and the softest sheets in which she's ever laid. If she wasn't always chained to it, it might actually be comfortable.

And if the bed didn't hold so many terrible thoughts, and if it didn't smell like _him_ , maybe she would enjoy it. His scent is all over her, claiming her.

Because if she doesn't suck his cock, or lie back and take it, he drags her to her dank little cell underneath his palace and leaves her to rot there with a bowl of water like she's some creature. Like she's a pet who's misbehaved. And that's what he always calls her, because she wears the collar, wears the First Order band, wears the chained leash he keeps wrapped around his long fingers. She has no choice in the matter, except to obey. He's given her no other options, she knows that now. All the kicking, the screaming, the protesting… It only results in a hard slap to her face, and she's out in the rain.

She's not used to the rain. Arkanis is terribly cold and bleak, and it makes all too much sense that this is where he was raised, that _this_ terrible place is his home planet. She used to imagine rain as freeing, comforting, cleansing. Now she knows it for what it really is: cold, numb, tortuous. He keeps her out here when she disobeys fully. It's the same punishment every time.

And it always breaks her down.

The tireless days blur and spread, and Rey knows she's been here for a while. Enough to know his habits. Enough to know what she has to do to survive, no matter how humiliating. It almost makes knowing that the entirety of the Resistance is dead, because she can't handle the thought of her colleagues ever seeing her like this. And she isn't strong enough to break free. She never has been. He's made that quite clear, and she's only proven that he's right.

Rey bites the inside of her cheek as she scoots over to his leg, so it grazes against her arm. He's always warm. And during sex he's like fire, always burning her with his heated kisses and touches. How someone who acts so ice cold can feel so… she shudders at the thought, and his brow raises.

"Cold, pet?" he asks. There's always a tone of amusement evident in his voice, like this is all a game. It's like he doesn't care that he's destroyed so many lives. She shivers again when he strokes her hair, like she's some sort of bred animal. _Oh_ , does she hate those fingers. Hates what they make her feel, like she's gross and unclean. And she especially hates when they make her feel _good_.

She's basically wearing nothing; of course she's cold. But if he asks a question and she doesn't answer, she's punished. Rey's hands ball into tight fists on her knees. "Just a bit, my Lord," she utters. It never feels natural, those terrible two words. But she has to say them.

He moves his fingers slowly down her jaw to cup her chin, forcing her to look at him. She wills herself not to scowl. "Well, then…" When he smirks, only the very corners of his lips curl upward. It's difficult to tell when it's happening. But Rey has seen it all too often, and she hates that she knows what this means. "A warm bath and a comfortable rest should do the trick."

When it happens, she doesn't rest. She stays awake for hours, disgusted with herself for enjoying it again. Every time she vows it won't feel as good, she won't crave for him. But then she arches into him and he breathes deeply against her neck when he passes out atop her and she's cursing herself all over again. And then when she finally passes out from exhaustion he's gone.

"Yes, my Lord. That sounds lovely." Her voice is shaking. She doesn't want to look at him. Doesn't want his condescending, clear green eyes, or his sharp cheekbones, or that fire orange hair. She doesn't want his pink, plump lips, or his wicked fingers.

But she _has_ to do it. There's already someone taking her leash, leading her up to her bath, already drawn the second the words escaped his mouth. It's like, ever since he's taken down the Resistance to name himself Emperor, everything is handed to him on a silver platter. The whole galaxy bends to his will. Rey is probably the last being in his vast empire he _hasn't_ completely conquered.

Or maybe he has. Every day is a terrible battle she keeps losing. She's stripped, then dipped, then washed by protocol droids and handmaidens. She can't look at them, can't let them see the shame in her eyes as she's immersed in comfortably warm water. Rey is limp when they scrub her body, her hair, every single part of her skin. She must always be immaculate for the Emperor, to the point where lack of sun has paled her skin tone and her hair has gained some shine but her eyes are dull and almost lifeless.

This is the man who's slaughtered millions with a straight face. This is the man who's ordered for the destruction of the Resistance and succeeded. This is the man whose pale hands have personally slaughtered Kylo Ren. This is the man who takes away more and more of Rey's dignity every night.

Rey is dried, then taken to her quarters, then shackled to the bed. Her hands are already above her head, prepared for it. She's shackled whether or not she fights back. There's no point in fighting; she knows that now. She's gotten to that tired point where it's so much easier to give in to his whims and give him what he wants, because she's sick of sitting in the cold rain for false hope, and sick of his hands on her skin when he isn't giving her pleasure, and sick of fighting for a lost cause.

Above all, Rey is a _survivor_. She's not a fighter, not anymore. She knows to keep her head down when she makes her deals for goods with Unkar Plutt, and now with the new Emperor. These are her instincts kicking in, telling her to just lie back and take it, because that means she's around to live another day. Fighting led to her friends being killed. Surviving has kept her alive.

If one can call it living.

She doesn't have to wait very long. She shudders when she hears the familiar rush of the door opening, because she's always laying like this, naked and so exposed, and she can't do anything about it when he walks around her with that smirk, his sheer, maroon robe floating around his ankles as he holds it closed. He's bathed, too, she can tell, because he smells horribly musky and it's terribly attractive. Oh, does she hate it.

He circles her with an observant leer, and she can feel herself shake, even though the temperature has been raised for their comfort. No matter how many times this has happened, she's not used to it. She tries to avert her gaze, but with no avail as she feels the large bed start to dip when he kneels onto it. All he does is hover over her, and he's looking right through her. Rey hates his eyes here. They're almost… fearful. They're so akin to hers in these moments, until he gains his traction, and makes his moves.

His hand brushes against her stomach, his lips grazing her jaw. She can feel the edges of his robe on her sides, the silken material making her skin form bumps despite the warm temperature in the room, which she knows is only going to get warmer with their… activities. Inadvertently her chin cranes upward to give him more access. How easy it is, to give in to him when he expects it. What point is there, when everyone she's ever cared about is dead?

If she closes her eyes for too long, he punishes her. And he never takes her without looking her in the eye, his lust-clouded eyes boring right into her, claiming her again and again as his property. There's never any escape from _knowing_ he's completely taking her over. He can't just take her on her hands and knees, facing away from him. He has to watch her face contort into pure pleasure from discomfort, not entirely from her own volition. Rey shudders a sigh as he tentatively moves in for a kiss, hesitant because she's given him a fight in the past. She's made him bleed, biting hard on his lip. But it's always backfired. He'll chuckle, his teeth and lips stained red, and then he strikes her a few times before leading her back to her dank cell, their activities forgotten until she apologizes.

But here, she responds minimally, keeping her mouth slightly open because she _knows_ that he's going to breach it, even when she tries to seal it closed. That wet, slimy muscle worms its way inside her, violating this orifice first before the sex. Rey squeezes her eyes shut with a half-hearted whimper, her hands clenching into fists around her bonds, never used to it as she tenses. It runs over her teeth; he slobbers all over her lips. Very, very hesitantly, Rey meets his tongue with her own, because it's all she can do to get him to pull away quicker, even when his hand moves up to her chin to keep her in place. It's strange, and the thought of it should be gross—why is it making her moan?

He doesn't really kiss her, hasn't trusted her to do the job. With her track record, she's bitten more than she's kissed, pushed away rather than pulled closer. But he's broken her down every time, and now…

Now there's some primal, terrible part of her that _likes_ it, when before, she would moan in protest, would sometimes beg for him to stop, would sometimes be in tears when he took her. But here and now Rey allows him to hold her in place and ravage her mouth, and he tastes like smoke. He smells clean, like rain and musk, his hand moving back down her neck to her breast, kneading it. His touch isn't nearly as rough as it's been in the past, like he actually knows what he's doing. Like she's the only sexual partner he's ever had, even if she's not willing. Her mind is clouding, letting it all go so she doesn't linger on it in the aftermath. Maybe, if she doesn't think about it for once, it won't be so horrid. Maybe, if she just acts tired and passive, and not focused on his fingers pinching her breast, or his robe falling down his shoulders, she'll be able to fall asleep when he does, rather than stay up and reflect, as per usual.

It's a mind game more than anything. He always forces her to watch every terrible little detail, every movement he makes on her. He forces her to keep eye contact when he's inside her, makes sure she loses herself to those cold, green eyes, unable to escape. Rey can't dive into her own pleasures (no matter how reluctantly). She is always, completely, utterly consumed by his very being every time. If she doesn't, of course, he punishes her. It's gotten to the point where she's automatically watching his lips move down her neck, down to where his fingers were previously on her breast. Her body reacts; the sparks of pleasure shoot to her core and she bites her lip to stifle another moan threatening to escape.

"You can't hide it, pet," he utters into her skin, then circles his tongue around her nipple until it peaks.

Of course he's right. But when Rey hears herself cry out because of what _he's_ doing, it means she's losing herself even more to him. She clenches her jaw. When her legs spread a bit wider, he takes advantage and moves in between them, just in case she gets the bright idea to try and close them, which of course she's tried in the past. His lips and tongue move to her other breast, and when he teases, she wishes she can drown out how she's starting to sound desperate, how she's starting to sound like she _wants_ him.

Why is it her body must act so automatically? Why can't her body and mind be in tune with what's right and moral? She groans, and she can _feel_ that smirk on her stomach, her breathing starting to get shallow.

She hates when his head moves between her legs. She hates that every time, no matter how much she's cried, no matter how she's tried to get him to stop in the past, he's always tried to please her. Other than when she sorely, severely misbehaves, his touches are almost mocking, so cloyingly gentle to the point where her body shakes with terrible satisfaction. His tongue darts out against her very core, and she spasms, hating her hips for rolling against his mouth. This, of course, is how he usually starts. Tonight, she knows he just wants to lord his power over her as much as possible, which is why he's teasing her so much with such sweet kisses, his gentle touches.

He's lapping at everything she has to offer, and Rey hates how much she's reciprocating, giving to him without her want for any of it. He drinks her in, and she almost gives a cry of his name (which, of course, she's not even allowed to do), already moaning so frequently. And then his tongue moves up from her core, against _that_ spot, and she can feel herself going, can feel her hips lift off the bed and he grabs her thighs, keeping his head in place. He isn't going anywhere—past experiences have taught her that. He doesn't move until it's so pleasurable it _hurts_.

What she hates is that she's _glad_ her hands are bound, because if her hands _were_ free, they wouldn't be trying to push him away.

No, she knows that now her fingers would thread in that flaming orange hair, would tug at those soft strands (which she can feel against the inside of her thighs) to pull him _closer_ against her. She knows now that there's some terrible part of her that wants to drown him in her, that wants to make sure the only thing he can _breathe_ is her very essence, and hold him there. Hold him down there so he can't escape, to make him feel even the slightest bit trapped, just as she has been these past few months. And now she's getting to that point where she can't feel her toes curl, or her throat ache from crying out. All she can feel is the blinding, white-hot pleasure from his lips and tongue messily eating her like a man starved. Her legs spread wider, with her goal to forget about the situation, to make sure all she can feel in this sea of pain and hurt is her body betraying her.

She spasms, the chains rattling as they keep her wrists bound, and his tongue feels scratchy; her nerves are too sensitive. Rey isn't moaning anymore. She's whining, and her voice is far too high pitched. Most of the time he pays no mind to her pleas, and stops at his own leisure.

That is, he stops when she can finally feel a burgeoning hardness against the inside of her leg. She shudders, squeezing her eyes shut, like he can only become aroused after he's defiled her body with his hands and lips and tongue, after she's moaned because that's the only thing she _can_ do at that point. Rey is still a bit oversensitive—not that he cares much. He licks his lips, his chin still shiny with her essence, and moves up so he can force her to look at him again. Rey's breaths are shallow; she's too weak from such an orgasm to put up any sort of a fight. She's hazy when he leans in to kiss her again, and Rey wrinkles her nose when he forces her to taste herself, and he hums as he holds her there. She hates his plump lips, his probing tongue. Hates how he's tasted every part of her. Hates how broken and dirty he makes her feel.

Hates that when he pulls away and calls her his "good pet" in a deep, husky voice, she gives an involuntary moan. Moments later she shudders. She's better than this. She's always been better than this. She's fought back. She's bit him, she's kicked, she's given her all in trying to say "no."

She can't have learned to like it.

He repeats it again and again against her neck, until that buildup begins once more against her very core. She obeys, and he sings her praises, makes her feel like this is her only option. What's worse is every time her body betrays her—it's _always_ betrayed her.

An eternity passes when he's kissing her lips and neck to when he's wrapping her legs around his waist as he breaches her. Rey counts how many times his lips press against her (twenty, twenty one, twenty two…), but doesn't take into account that her legs widen for him, almost inviting him when his arousal presses to her hip next. She hates how it doesn't hurt as much anymore, hates how she's just gotten so used to it. Hates how slowly he moves in the beginning. Hates the moan she gives because she's full— _so full_ —and even he's sporting parted lips and flushed cheeks before he starts thrusting. His bright hair starts falling in his face, and if Rey looks anywhere other than in those cold, clouded green eyes, he stops. It's that terrible challenge. He keeps his face close, and she can feel him panting against her lips, his breath always hot, yet clean. Rey tries not to move her hips when he sets that slow, deliberate pace. Tries to clear her mind and lay back and forget this is happening, forget that this is some terrible nightmare from which she can't wake.

But before long those eyes continue the challenge. His hair brushes against her cheek and she starts arching off the bed. She starts moaning for more, thrusting her hips against his to meet him, to take him deeper. Can feel her arousal building up again, much as she doesn't want it— _You don't want it, you_ never _wanted it, Rey_ —can feel every contradicting thought silenced by the blinding pleasure he provides. She hates her body betraying her, almost tricking her mind into liking it when he picks up the pace, hits that one spot that's making her cry out for him. Sometimes his mouth clashes with hers, and she can feel him bury moans against her skin, against her lips, as if to feed her the illusion that somehow he's not losing control. She can see those green eyes, his pupils dilated. He's not handsome, she keeps telling herself. She doesn't like those sharp cheekbones or his thick, pink lips, and she especially doesn't like them on her flushed skin. She doesn't like his strange, soft hair or his bright eyes. She doesn't like that steady voice of his, again calling her his "good pet." No, none of those things are contributing to her impending release.

Her legs curl tighter around his waist; he moves a hand up her stomach to her breast, kneading it in time with his thrusts. The only good thing about losing control, Rey now knows, is that she can't form words. When the pleasure becomes too prominent, it's all she can focus on, all that seems to matter. But afterward, she'll hate herself all the same because…

 _Because_ …

Rey leans up when he pulls away from their last kiss, chasing for another with a whine before she can think. Despite his parted lips, there's still that damned smirk on his face, and he kisses her again. She's responding, her tongue eagerly meeting his, willingly swallowing his moans, and it's only broken when his hand moves back down to rub just above where they meet. Rey cries out and her hips move entirely off the bed, shutting her brain off with how loudly her voice fills the room. It's hot— _so hot, why is he so_ warm _?_ —especially when she shakes against him again and he's grabbing her posterior to hold her still when she finally, _finally_ comes. Moments later he's biting gently at her neck and he fills her. She gives a low moan, her eyes closing again.

He doesn't pull out until after he collapses against her breast, panting gently. Rey gives a slight whine at the loss—it's involuntary, just her body reacting, she tells herself—the air thick with the stench of sex. She knows she's just been cleaned, but afterward she always feels so _disgusting_ , covered in his sweat and his release and that terrible, smoky musk he always has about him.

Rey opens her eyes, slightly distressed when he suddenly moves, reaching over to grab the key to release her binders. She knows it's a test; he's doing this to see if, even in this weakened state, she still has that fight. He tosses them atop his discarded robe, resting his head back on her chest.

His neck is in such close proximity. He'd stop her after a few moments, call his guards to take her away—is it worth it? Does she still want to wrap her hands around his pale neck and _squeeze_ and do everything in her power to make him hurt? Make him at least gain a _sense_ of the torture he's put her through? Rey tests out her hands, curling and uncurling her fingers like she's never had control over them.

He looks up at her expectantly. Moments pass like hours as she contemplates.

Rey brings her hands up to his bright hair with a shaky breath, closing her eyes again as she threads her fingers through the soft strands. He kisses the valley in between her breasts, and she can feel his smirk against her skin, completely claiming her.

 **Nearly 4000 words of smut. I pushed my boundaries a bit, going for this idea, and I think it makes for an interesting dynamic.**

 **I'm actually hoping to do a Reyux kink challenge in the near future! As always, comments and reviews are always appreciated.**


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